“Was it really necessary to leave so gods damned early?” Sam groused, hugging her horse’s neck. It was a poor replacement for a pillow. “It’s not even light out yet.”

“Yes, it was necessary,” said Tristan. “And we would have left earlier if I hadn’t had to physically drag you out of bed like a spoiled babe.”

“Two hours of sleep is not humane.”

“If you were looking to be coddled, boy, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Children, children,” Braeden murmured with a hint of a smile. Tristan and Sam glared at him in unison.

“It’s your fault we had to leave at this ungodly hour,” Sam complained. “If it weren’t for you--” she choked off her words as she realized what she’d said. “Gods, Braeden, I didn’t mean it!”

Braeden wouldn’t look at her. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone flat. “Ya!” he shouted, urging his horse into a gallop.

Tristan and Sam watched as Braeden slowed his horse to a trot, still in eyesight but far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to hear them. “You’re an idiot,” said Tristan.

“I know,” she replied miserably. Gods damn her sleep-addled, insensitive brain.

Dawn broke over the horizon, the orange of the sun painting stripes of pink and purple against the fading indigo of the night sky. The dirt road they traveled was deserted; the nearest village was still miles away and The Center was now a tiny speck in the distance. Sam had passed through this land before as she made her way from Haywood to The Center, but in the shadowed glow of dawn, it was unrecognizable. Braeden still plodded on ahead, his back ramrod straight, and Tristan was too disgusted with her to talk. With no one but her horse to keep her company, Sam was hit by an unexpected wave of loneliness.

They traveled in silence for several more hours, interrupted only by the thud of hooves against packed ground and the rustling of leaves as the wind whistled through the trees. Sam almost cried for joy when she saw the top of a picket fence and thatched roofs in the distance. People, Sam thought happily. People who talked.

Braeden drew his horse to a stop when the village was in clear sight, waiting for Sam and Tristan to catch up to him. He’d donned a conical straw hat, the brim pulled low over his eyes. With only the bottom of his lower lashes visible, he looked like a foreign young lord come to visit the countryside.

“We’re just passing through, lads,” Tristan warned them as they neared the village gate, blessedly breaking the silence. “We’ve got miles to go before nightfall.”

Though it was only a few hours past dawn, the small village of Gwent was already bustling with activity. The local merchants stood behind their stalls in the market square, hawking their wares to any and every passerby within earshot. The smell of fresh ginger bread wafted in the air from the bakery, and the steady pounding of mallet against cowhide resonated from the leathermaker’s shop. Women in their long woolen gowns and wimples clustered around the village well, trading gossip while they waited their turn to draw water, and the children played games at their mothers' feet.

“Paladin Lyons!” a voice cried in greeting. A round little man waddled over to their horses, a wide smile plastered on his sweaty face.

“Master Collop, it’s good to see you,” Tristan acknowledged.

“Dare I hope that you will spend the night? It’s good for business when I can claim a Paladin among my patrons.”

Tristan shook his head. “Not tonight. But I wouldn’t say no to a bite of breakfast before we continue on our way.”

“Of course, of course,” the innkeeper said. “Will your companions want to breakfast as well?”

Sam’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Master Collop chuckled. “Right this way.”

The Laughing Bear had earned its name. Even at this early hour, the inn was near to full, and the sounds of laughter and merriment were infectious. A group of young men hooted and hollered at a kitchen maid, a pretty slip of a girl with the voice of an angel, who was singing atop a table. Sam tapped her good foot in time to the music, until she got a better listen at the bawdy lyrics.

As they wound their way around the inn to the nearest empty table, they were stopped a half dozen times. Everyone seemed to have something to say to Tristan, whether it was to tell him about the birth of a new foal or the latest village scandal. A few of the men were bent on introducing Tristan to their daughters, but he politely declined their entreaties. Braeden kept his eyes downcast and did not remove his hat.

“I thought we would never eat,” sighed Sam, as the innkeeper’s wife set down plates of kippered herring and mugs of watered wine in front of them. “Who knew you were so popular?”

Tristan shrugged. “I’ve come through here a number of times. Master Collop’s a good friend to the Paladins.”

When they were about halfway through their breakfast, the innkeeper paid them another visit. “If you have a moment, Paladin Lyons, I need to speak with you in private. I have news that may be of interest to you.”

Tristan pulled a gold coin from his belt pouch and slid it across the table. “Braeden and Sam are my trainees. They are to hear your news as well.”

“Very well.” Master Collop swept up the gold coin and deposited it into his apron. “I hear rumors from the West.”

“You know I don’t put much stock in rumors,” Tristan admonished.

“Aye, that I do, Paladin. But I think these rumors are worthy of your attention.” The innkeeper’s eyes darted right and then left. “I hear tell you’re headed to the Diamond Coast.”

Tristan nodded. “Go on.”

Master Collop coughed into his hand. “I have an innkeeper friend at The Brass Monkey in Pirama. Business has been tough lately, and he asked to borrow a few gold coins, just to stay afloat. ‘Business is that bad?’ I asked him. Now, John Byrd--that’s his name--is as loyal to the Paladins as they come. He understands what you do for Thule, same as me. But the demon plague at the Diamond Coast, John says it’s spreading east. Even in Pirama, it’s gotten bad, with attacks almost nightly. They’ve had to double the night watch.”

“Isn’t Reynard out there? I would think he’d have called for help if the situation were truly dire.”

Master Collop stroked his fleshy chin, thinking. “Paladin Reynard? John didn’t mention him. All I know is folks are getting restless, and some of them are refusing to pay their tithes to the Paladins.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t word been sent to the High Commander?” Tristan asked.

The innkeeper wrinkled his brow. “I assumed it had. Thought that’s why he was sending you out West--to smooth things over and see to the plague at the Coast.”

Tristan opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. “Is that it?”

Master Collop shook his head. “No, Paladin. John says if it’s bad in Pirama, it’s much worse further out.” He leaned in closer. “Have you heard of the Uriel?”

“The who?”

“The Uriel,” Master Collop whispered. “I don’t know much about them, but John says they’re presenting themselves as an alternative to the Paladins, as salvation against the western demon plague. And they’ve already amassed a decent sized following.”

“Are they in Pirama already?” Tristan asked.

“No, not yet; most of their followers are from the fringe towns just outside the Diamond Coast. But John thinks a rebellion is coming; he’s heard rumbles about it. And folks are already refusing to stay at The Brass Monkey since John has got the High Commander's emblem in his windows. That’s why he needed to borrow the money.”

Tristan leaned back in his chair, rubbing the blond stubble at his chin. “It’s grim news you share, Master Collop. I’ll have to write of this to the High Commander.” He slid another two gold coins across the table. “Can I trust you to deliver the letter? And to keep quiet about this rumor until I return?”

The two coins vanished into Master Collop’s apron. “You can put your faith in me, Paladin.”

A short half hour later, Master Collop walked them to the stables, a slight jingle to his step as he brought out their horses. “You be careful, now,” the innkeeper cautioned as he bid them farewell.

“I always am,” said Tristan.

“You too, Master Sam and Master Braeden. And you listen to Paladin Lyons. He’s a good man, he is.”

Braeden and Sam exchanged looks, their first friendly interaction since the inauspicious start to the day. Master Collop then bowed as low as his rounded body would allow, until the sock cap he wore slipped off his head, revealing his shiny, bald crown.

Once Master Collop was no longer in sight, a helpless giggle escaped Sam’s lips. Tristan brought his horse close enough to hers so that the back of her head was in range. “Idiot,” he scoffed as he lightly smacked her across the nape of her neck.

“Oi,” she protested, rubbing her neck. “I couldn’t help it. That man is just so silly.”

“Aye, Master Collop is quite silly,” Tristan admitted. “But we’d do well to heed his words. He may be a bothersome old gossip, but his information is seldom wrong. If there’s any truth to what he said…” he trailed off. “Well, let’s just say this assignment may prove to be more interesting than I anticipated.”

They continued on the road again, with far more amiability than the frosty silence of the morning. Tristan took the lead, setting a pace that was as fast as they could reasonably push their horses. Sam’s right ankle began to ache, but she pushed it out of her mind.

The road was not nearly as desolate as it had been between The Center and Gwent; the villages were not spread so far apart here, and merchants with their goods in tow traversed the dirt path between one village and the next. But Tristan wanted to reach the city of Cordoba before nightfall, when they closed the city gates, so they did not stop again, eating their midday meal from the saddle. It was a good thing, too, for by the time they reached the city, it was already dusk.

“I hate Cordoba,” Braeden muttered darkly as they neared the city gates.

Sam turned to Braeden in surprise. “Why?” She hadn’t spent more than an hour in Cordoba, and had only been passing through, so she knew little about the city or its people.

It was Tristan who answered. “Given its proximity to The Center, Cordoba is a Paladin bastion, and the city is very impassioned about our cause. You might say that their passion borders on fanaticism.” Tristan twisted in his saddle towards Braeden. “I take it your, ah, unique heritage may have raised a few brows?”

Braeden grimaced, tugging his straw hat lower over his eyes. “Something like that.”